Westeros Olympics
by bump-in-the-night1990
Summary: "Little bird, that's what he called her the first time he saw her jump off of a diving board. She was only thirteen. 'You don't jump. You fly,' Sandor told her. To a thirteen-year-old girl, Sandor was a formidable coach. Old, broad, and scarred. He terrified her into excellence." A series of AU One-Shots on Game of Thrones characters participating in the Olympics.


**A/N - ****So because I'm obviously on crack- I've decided to write a series of AU Game of Thrones One-Shots about the Olympics.**

**Why? Because why the fuck not.**

**Also because the Olympics are awesome, and writing about fictional characters competing in the Olympics is the closest **_**I**_** will ever get to competing in the Olympics. **

**These One-Shots will NOT be related to one another. I'm going to write them about different characters from the Game of Thrones universe until I get bored.**

**This first one is about our lovely winter daughter Sansa Stark and, duh, Sandor.**

**This story involves flashbacks. The present is in present-tense, and the past is in past-tense. I hope that's clear enough. I didn't want to use italics because they're hard to read in longer sections.**

* * *

Sansa's feet grip the cold, gritty texture of the diving board. She takes a steadying breath and trains her eyes on the water ten meters below her. The stadium is packed. Thousands of people. Thousands of eyes.

_They don't matter_, Sansa tells herself, _ignore them._

She tries to picture her training center at home. Empty. Blissfully empty. Quiet except for the few seconds when her feet pound against the diving board, quiet except for that one small, splash as she slides, hands extended, into the cool water.

Except she's not at her training center.

She's at the Olympics.

The warning buzzer sounds, and Sansa tugs down her diving cap, making sure all of her auburn hair is tucked safely beneath the tight elastic. She sets her stance, readying for the few step sprint before springing off of the board. She'll need to score at least 106.7 on this dive to secure the gold. A score she has achieved before. Once.

The crowd is buzzing around her. Excited, chattering voices. It's suffocating. It's nerve-wracking. It's intoxicating.

And then the final buzzer sounds. Sansa shoots off the board, small, confident feet racing across the short stretch of space. Instinct takes over, and the crowd fades away. Sansa's knees bend, and slender, muscled legs shoot her off of the board and straight into the empty air.

* * *

_Little bird_, that's what he called her the first time he saw her jump off of a diving board. She was only thirteen.

"You don't jump. You fly," Sandor told her. To a thirteen-year-old girl, Sandor was a formidable coach. Old, broad, and scarred. He terrified her into excellence. When she was ready to give up, he would snarl his burnt upper lip, and her stomach would drop. He would stare at her, eyes hard and black, until she turned around and climbed the rungs of the ladder. Again and again.

* * *

The pool ripples beneath her as she soars higher and higher. She imagines that she's flying in the sky, high above the deep, blue ocean, seagulls gliding next to her in the open air.

* * *

Six months before travelling to London for the Olympics, they had spent a particularly grueling day at the gymnasium. Sansa kept missing the last half-rotation of her dive before slicing into the water. It was a move she had learned a year ago. A move she should be able to do in her sleep.

And yet for some reason, only months before her Olympic debut, she couldn't do it.

"You're distracted," Sandor growled, handing her a towel as she stepped out of the pool.

"I'm not." Sansa flung the towel around her shoulders and stalked towards the benches. She whipped off her diving cap so that her auburn tangles could hang down her back. "I'm just stressed."

"Why?" Sandor came to stand before her, his broad, tall body towering over her. Sandor didn't _comfort. _He didn't have empathy or sympathy or a grain of tolerance for weakness.

"You know why." Sansa's hands were shaking. She used to be calm. Collected. Polite. But years and years of training with Sandor had turned her into a mess of emotions, constantly swaying from cocky to depressed to anxious to triumphant and circling again and again, never stable, never whole. "The Olympics. I'm nervous."

"You've competed in worldwide championships dozens of times. You'll be up against the same competition as always. Venue shouldn't affect your ability. Stop being weak."

"You don't understand." Sansa sighed heavily and flashed her blue eyes towards Sandor. "You don't understand the pressure I'm under."

"Stop complaining. It's pathetic." Sandor motioned to the diving board. "Get back up there. Now."

"No." Sansa wrapped her arms around her body, cold and wet. "I won't. I need a break. I need to think." She was eighteen. She had to stop letting Sandor bully her. She wasn't his _little bird_.

She was his caged bird.

Sandor bent down, face inches away from Sansa's. His scars harsh, yet faded. When Sansa was younger, they used to scare her. Now they just made her curious.

_Where are they from? _

"I said. Get. Back. Up. There." He said it a slowly, a threat behind each word.

Sansa's hands were still shaking. She couldn't take it. The pressure. The overwhelming, looming sense of failure. "No," she repeated, her voice less firm than she wanted. "I can't."

"You can." Sandor stood up, growling. "You just won't."

Sandor grabbed Sansa's wrist and tugged it tightly until she stood up. She tried to take a step back, but he pulled her forward so that their bodies were almost touching. He grabbed her chin and tilted her head upwards, holding it there until she met his eyes. "You're hurting me," she said, through gritted teeth.

"You're hurting yourself." Sandor continued to cup her chin so that she couldn't look away. His calloused fingers were rough against her soft skin. "We haven't been training for five years so that you could just give it all up at the last minute."

"_We?_" Suddenly, Sansa started laughing. The pressure. The anxiety. All of it was bubbling up into a sudden hysteria. Sandor dropped his hand and stepped away. "_We_ haven't done anything!" It was the first time she ever yelled at him. It was the first time she dared cross him so blatantly, and she could feel the heat of his eyes burning through her as she spoke. "I've sacrificed five years of my life. My childhood. My family. My everything. I've worked my ass off for five years, and all you've done is stand and scream at me. Well I'm sick of it. I quit."

Sandor stepped forward, but Sansa stood her ground. She wouldn't cower from him anymore. He raised a hand, and Sansa flinched. _Was he going to hit her? _

Something flickered through Sandor's gaze. Hurt? Caution?

The hand landed on her shoulder, gripping the damp skin softly. The gentleness of the touch took Sansa by surprise, and she was shocked when a subtle thread of excitement coursed through her. This time when she looked into his black eyes, she felt as if they were staring straight through her. She shivered.

Sandor leaned down, his voice steady and low. "Get back up there, or I swear, you will regret it for the rest of your life."

He was right, and she knew it. But she couldn't back down now. She was done with being weak. She was done with letting someone else make decisions for her. With letting _him _make decisions for her.

So she looked up, blue eyes determined, and said, "No."

She walked out the door and didn't see him again for sixth months.

* * *

Sansa flies into the air, body as light and weightless as a feather in the wind. She has one advantage over the rest of the competition. Her ability to fly. When she springs off the board, she always manages at least a few more inches of air than the average diver. Those few inches earn more rotations, which earn more points, which earn more medals.

Her muscles are tense as she transitions into her first trick. Double twist, body erect, spiraling into a triple back flip. The dizzying sensation is calming. Each turn and jolt is methodical and practiced. Wind whips at her face, and the pool spins beneath her, waves and flashes of blue.

As she rockets towards the water, she rotates three times, barely catching the last half-rotation, the seemingly easy move that has haunted her for months now. Her body pulls out of the rotation, and she straightens out, preparing for her final arc into the pool.

* * *

"What are you doing here?" She asked.

Sansa climbed out of the pool only to find Sandor standing at the back entrance of the aquatic center.

He looked different. Something in his posture. Less rigid. Less confident.

The gymnasium was dim. There was only a small amount of light seeping out of the cracked door, so Sandor was cast in shadow.

"You didn't stop training," he said. A statement, not a question.

Sansa kept her distance. "You were right. I wasn't prepared to throw everything away."

"But you were prepared to throw me away." There was no trace of hurt in Sandor's voice. He took a few steps forward. It was the first time they had truly seen each other in months. "You did what you had to do. I respect that."

"You couldn't teach me anymore. I had to do it on my own. I had to know that I was doing it for me, not for you."

Something faltered in Sandor's gaze. "What do you mean?"

Sansa shook her head. She took another step closer but maintained a distance, a seperation. Sixth months absence seemed like an eternity after seeing each other every day for years. "You trained me so hard, Sandor. And it made me better. It really did. But one day, I woke up and realized I was training _for _you. I was practicing to _please _you. I was spending hours in the gym to meet _your _expectations." Sansa took another step forward. "You can't win a gold if you're doing it for someone else. You have to do it for yourself."

"I didn't realize-" Sandor paused. His voice sounded softer. Sansa wondered if it had actually changed, or if she was just stronger, older.

"Didn't realize what?" She wanted to hear it. Some sort of apology. Some sort of excuse for driving her crazy all of those years.

But Sandor just shook his head and turned around. Sansa watched him walk back towards the exit. As he was closing the door, he turned around and called out, "Remember to fly. You'll win the gold if you fly."

* * *

Sansa extends her entire body, stretching from her toes to her fingertips. The perfect, graceful arc. She slices into the water with a minimal splash, as if she had fallen a meter, not ten. Her body shoots straight down towards the bottom of the pool, and under the water, she can finally relax. She can't hear a sound except for the blood pumping in her ears and the bubbles exhaling from her mouth.

If only she could stay in the quiet, cold water forever.

But of course that's not an option. So when she reaches the bottom of the pool, she uses her feet to push off of the slippery floor. Light shimmers from above, and Sansa swims towards it, practiced legs kicking lightly, propelling her forward. She breaks through the water and takes a giant gulp of air.

The roar of the crowd is deafening. She spins in the water twice, orienting herself, searching for her family. But the crowd is too large.

When she steps out of the water, someone hands her a towel. Her fingers graze the proffered hand, and she feels those distant sparks of electricity run through her. She looks up only to find dark, black eyes staring at her.

Sansa's stomach drops. With anticipation. With excitement.

He wasn't supposed to be here. He's not her coach anymore.

And yet, somehow, she knew he would still come.

Sansa accepts the hand and let's Sandor pull her out of the pool. He wraps the towel around her shoulders, letting his hands linger on the wet, bare skin. Sansa looks up at him, and his eyes seem to soften.

She thought she didn't need him. And she didn't. But that didn't mean he wasn't missed.

"How did I do?" Sansa asks.

"The score will be out soon."

"No." Sansa looks up and locks her blue eyes on Sandor. "How did I do?"

His lips lift, just a little bit, the corners of his mouth tilting upwards. It's the closest thing to a smile she's even seen on Sandor Cleagane.

"You flew, little bird." His hand is still on her shoulder, warm and steady. "You flew."

* * *

**A/N ****– So yeah. Hope you enjoyed my bout of insanity. I'm pretty sure GRRM would have a heart attack if he read this, which I really hope doesn't happen because he needs to finish the rest of the series.**

**But – if you would like me to continue writing this CRACKverse- I'm welcome to suggestions for characters / pairings / sports / etc. **

**As always, thanks for reading and reviewing!**


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